Five Things that Never Happened to Combeferre
by TheHighestPie
Summary: Old, full of bad fandom tropes, vaguely embarrassing. But I'll leave it up for now.
1. I

Five Things That Never Happened to Combeferre

An overused format, I know, but oh so much fun. My sincerest apologies to Victor Hugo, Combeferre, Enjolras, Javert, Jehan, and the Marquis du Condorcet.

Which is your favorite? Make me happy by reviewing and let me know!

* * *

Combeferre, his ears still ringing with the sound of his cannon's discharge, gave a grim smile of satisfaction at the effect that the grapeshot had on the barricade looming above him.

The cries cut mercilessly through the gloom, and he was forced to remind himself that the insurgents were dangers to society, that they had anticipated death when they began this foolhardy riot of theirs.

He knew and cared nothing for their ideology, their strange fanaticism and dreams. He just wanted them to let him and his affluent family be.

With a sigh, he bent over and began to adjust his cannon's aim. She truly was a beautiful model, belching death in order to prevent further bloodshed and protect order. When this was all over – and it would be soon – perhaps he would get a medal for his brave service to the king.

Right now, though, he had lost his appetite for glory. Best to just get the horrible job done and go home. That was it.

He felt a gaze from the barricade, not entirely hostile, falling upon his back. An impossibly blue eye shone out from between the spokes of a wheel. Transfixed, Combeferre stood and met the stare, wondering what it wanted of him.

The eye suddenly became troubled and, inexplicably, a tear formed and leaked from its corner. This was almost more than the young artillery-man could bear. _Don't cry_, Combeferre wanted to tell it. _What's wrong? Everything will be alright._

An explosion, then, and a distant pain through his chest. His limp body pirouetted around twice with a dancer's agility, his head raised towards heaven, before he fell with a crash on top of his cannon, his life. A final breath, a distant gratefulness for the clean shot, and everything went black.

_...my brother._


	2. II

"Id sorry, Combeferre, but I weally must go oudside for a breath of air. I'm afraid that the man wid the bullet in his shin is infected wid influenza. If you will excuse me."

"Of course, my friend. Take your time."

Joly took his leave of the makeshift infirmary in the Corinthe and left Combeferre alone with the wounded. The man in question who had been shot in the leg was the only one who was alive and conscious. The would-be doctor approached him quietly and knelt beside his mattress, quiet concern in his ever-intense gaze.

"How are you feeling, monsieur?"

"Why do you keep me here? Set me down on a pile of paving stones and I can shoot as well as any other man! I have no desire to be killed by soldiers as I huddle in here like an invalid and a coward. Let me go down fighting!"

"Have no fear. I_ swear_ to you that you will not die when the National Guard storms the building. But you cannot go outside yet; the painkillers that I gave you must first wear off. Allow me to remove this bullet from your leg."

The man remained unconvinced. "What difference does it make if I have some lead in me or not? We are all going to die soon. Don't waste time with your medical games."

"Still, monsieur, I must do my duty as best I can." He stood and retrieved a bag of surgical implements. "You may wish to put a bit of bandage in your mouth so that you will not cry out or bite your tongue." The man scowled but took the proffered bit of fabric and stuffed it between his teeth. He felt a stab of confusion when he felt his hands being bound, but did not protest. He knew that something was terribly wrong when the unmistakable feel of a blade pressed itself to his throat. "Stay still, and keep quiet."

He tried to move, to fight, but the knife only pushed down harder every time he struggled. His shirt was torn open, and a second blade, so fine that it could only be a scalpel, began tracing delicate designs in his skin. He began to sweat in panic. He cried out when it pierced the skin along his navel, but his yell was muffled by the gag that he had willingly placed in his own mouth just moments before.

The light scratching gradually became deeper, more insistent, until it turned into a wild series of random slashings and stabbings. A mouth settled itself around one of the deeper cuts on his chest and, biting around the edge, sucked hard at the free-flowing blood. The man saw his chance and, while the doctor-turned-demon's eyes were distracted, tried to throw off the weight of the knife scraping his neck.

The attempt was in vain. The student felt his muscles start to move and jerked back, causing the knife to cut worryingly deep into the man's throat. Their eyes met for a moment, emotionless gray and panicked brown, before the knife drew back and swiftly buried itself in the precise center of the man's heart.

Combeferre emerged from the Corinthe, drawing a gasp from those around him. Blood covered his hands, his front, his arms, and tears dampened his cheeks. "Enjolras," he gasped, falling to his knees at the other man's feet. "Enjolras, I'm trying so hard to save them, but…oh! This bloodshed is such a terrible thing! How has it come to pass that society is so abominable that human beings are forced to kill each other?"

Enjolras helped Combeferre to his feet, not seeming to notice the blood that was transferred to his hand. "Brother, you have done all that you could. Be at peace."


	3. III

"Truce! Truce!" Combeferre cried as he climbed over the barricade, waving a white handkerchief tied to the end of his cane. "I propose an exchange of prisoners!"

The heads of the National Guardsmen at the other end of the urban battlefield snapped towards the insurgents' stronghold. Almost as one, they sprang up and leveled their muskets at this new potential threat. A sergeant stared appraisingly at the student through the smoke filling the Rue de Chanvrerie. "What, or who, is it that you would offer?" he shouted in reply.

"We have in our possession a spy who calls himself Inspector Javert. We would trade his freedom for that of Jean Prouvaire, the young man whom we believe you captured in your last attack." He made a motion towards the barricade and the imprisoned policeman was none too gently pushed over its summit.

A momentary pause, then, "Bring him here."

Heads held high, Combeferre and the inspector crossed the gloomy expanse between the two rival armies. Upturned cobblestones and the bodies of National Guardsmen forced them to following a meandering path down the decimated street. Combeferre idly considered what, if lines of emotional energy could be drawn like the force field that comes from a magnet, the street would look like from a bird's eye view. Surely his current position would be one at a most fearful junction of opposing forces, the strength of the competing ideologies emanating from the insurgents and Guardsmen swirling about his feet like the depths of Charybdis. He wondered if he and his prisoner would drown before they could reach the waiting Scylla.

When they safely reached the soldiers, Combeferre relaxed the pistol that he had been holding to Javert's back. The inspector turned and, quipping, "My thanks, monsieur," gave his former captor an ironic little bow. He spun smartly on his heel and marched off with the clipped stride of a man who is trying hopelessly to regain lost dignity.

Even though Combeferre knew that he was, in all probability, going to die while the spy lived, he did not envy him. He stared at the stiffly retreating back for a moment before returning his attention to the sergeant. There were more important things to focus on now. "You have your man. Now where is Jean Prouvaire?"

"Come with me," the sergeant commanded. He led the student around the corner of the street. There, against the wall of the shop at the corner, sat the gentle poet. His eyes were bandaged, his mouth gagged, and his chest full of bullet holes.

"No! Jehan!" Combeferre collapsed with a sob beside his lifeless body of his friend and comrade.

"Fool," the sergeant muttered, and buried a single bullet in the worthless insurgent's head.


	4. IV

I can't decide if this one is a clever parallel or a shameless, pathetic rip-off. 9430 nerd points for everyone who gets the reference.

* * *

"Hail, friend! What news?"

"Are you sure you want to know? In times like this, ignorance truly is bliss."

"Yes, but what is it these idiots say now? Ah, 'death to ignorance.'"

"Yes, and death to everything and everyone else too, by the looks of it. There's some news for you: they found 'Citizen' Combeferre dead in his cell this morning."

"In his cell? He was imprisoned?"

"You hadn't heard? It was all over the papers a few days ago. Apparently he was growing a bit too loud in his criticisms of the tyrant."

"Fool. How did he die?"

"The official story is that he poisoned himself so that he wouldn't have to face the guillotine. It's possible, but people are muttering that the government assassinated him so that they wouldn't have to publicly execute him; he was very popular with the masses. "The saintly doctor," or something like that. They positively adored him"

"Why do you look so troubled? The more those republican scum kill each other off, the sooner they will crumble, God willing."

"Perhaps, but I have also heard that he was something of a mitigating factor to Enjolras' wrath. The tyrant actually listened to him, respected his ideas, and may have even been influenced by his abhorrence of bloodshed. They say that the two were actually close friends, before."

"Wait, the Enjolras we have seen these past months was in fact a man made gentler by his more peaceful companion?"

"So it would seem"

"By God. What will become of us now?"

"The same thing that happened to Combeferre, if we keep talking like this in public. Come, 'Citizen,' let's go someplace safer."

* * *

And now for the explanation, if you're curious.

Hugo says that the difference between Enjolras and Combeferre is like the difference between Robespierre and Condorcet, an analogy that I ran with here. Condorcet was a moderate (as well as a natural/political/social scientist, mathematician, philosopher, abolitionist, and advocate for women's rights) who refused to declare for either the Mountain or the Girondins, but found himself lumped with the latter nonetheless after he opposed the execution of Louis XVI and the excesses of the Terror. He was branded a traitor and forced to go into hiding. However, the authorities eventually found him and put him in prison where he mysteriously died. No one knows if he committed suicide so that he wouldn't have to face the guillotine, or if Robespierre 'n Friends poisoned him so that they wouldn't have to deal with publicly executing the last giant of the Enlightenment.

* * *


	5. V

News travels slowly to the provinces, and the sharpness of upheaval and unpleasant revelations is dulled by the double wall of time and distance. A world away from urban misery and cannon smoke, cholera and barricades, an aging woman and her son, a sturdy and good-natured young man in his early twenties, are sitting together in their kitchen on a warm, sun-drenched June afternoon.

"Oh dear, it would appear that the rumors were right. Some old general died of the cholera and those silly Parisians rioted."

"Again? Do they ever stop?" Combeferre made a final mark on the sheet of family finances and walked over to the kitchen table, where his mother was examining the latest newspaper. "May I see?"

"Wait your turn, you silly boy! It seems that those radicals used the poor man's funeral as an excuse to try and overthrow his majesty Louis-Philippe."

"But they just put him in power! What do they have against stability?"

"How does the mind of a radical ever work, dearest? You're the young man; you tell me."

"They…were my age?"

"And younger, my poor boy."

"How terrible." His brow furrows and he murmurs a quick prayer. "And to think that I once wanted to go study in Paris! It seems as though the very air there makes everyone who breathes it think that they are Robespierre."

"Terrible indeed, but I'm sure you would be safe from such insanity. You, singing the praises of that Simon (1) fellow and trying to shoot hard-working National Guardsmen? Ha! You don't even like to hunt."

He leaps onto a chair and begins to gesture wildly. "Down with the king! Long live the masses! A chicken in every pot! No more war! For Robespierre and the Republic!"

A girl of eleven pokes her head into the kitchen. "Mama? What's going on?"

"Your brother's going to Paris to start a riot, Michelle"

"Really? Can I come? Will there be a guillotine?"

Combeferre leaps down from his chair, horrified. "Heavens, there's not going to be a riot at all! It was a joke!"

"Are you at least going to Paris?"

"No. He's not going anywhere, is he?" their mother interrupts in a not-quite rhetorical manner.

"Of course not, Maman," he reassures her, smiling at her fondly while he ruffles the hair of his annoyed youngest sister. "I'm staying right here. You know that I could never leave you."

* * *

(1) As in the utopian socialist Saint-Simon. I'm not crazy, just trying to highlight how unconcerned they are with politics and Big Ideas. 


	6. The Rejects

These are some of the original ones that I wrote several months ago. I came back to them recently and decided that, relatively speaking, they were lousy. However, I didn't deem them lousy enough to just throw away, so you, dear reader, get some extra things that never happened to Combeferre. Think of them as the equivalent of the "deleted scenes" feature that you get on DVDs. Or something.

* * *

Combeferre sat alone in his apartment, his normally calm, logical mind spinning in a maelstrom of desperate confusion as he wondered what he had done. It had surpassed his every hope in a way that he had never dared to image. It had been pleasurable, of course, but also gentle, tender, and, most of all, _loving. _However, after a night of what had seemed like long-awaited fulfillment, he felt curiously empty.

He, a member of a society dedicated to overthrowing the government, obviously put little stock in most cultural standards. The realization that he preferred men to women had long ago ceased to greatly trouble him. And now, he truly believed himself to be in love – truly, sweetly, and gloriously in love. After long months of yearning and devotion, his dedication had finally paid off. He knew that he should be happy that the attraction and yes, love, was mutual. And yet, the good must be…

He collapsed sobbing onto his bed. _Heaven help me,_ he thought, even though he knew that, this time, it wouldn't. _I have defiled Enjolras._

* * *

"Citizen Combeferre, you stand accused of counter-revolutionary activities. Have you anything to say in your defense?"

"Enjolras! This is all wrong and you know it! This is no Republic, but a tyranny worse than any conceived by our former monarchs. You are killing innocents. People are afraid of these changes that you are thrusting upon them, yes, but that is no reason to execute them en masse. And quite honestly, I understand why they are afraid. I am scared too."

"Cowardice is no defense. You are well aware that the penalty for your crimes is death. Have you nothing else to say?"

"Cowardice? I am not afraid to die, just as Feuilly and Jehan and Joly and Courfeyrac were unafraid of death. I fear instead for the future of France. You have had your revolution; I will now fight for civilization. No matter what the cost."

"Then face the consequences of your actions. Guilty!"

* * *

"Well and good. But you're not alone in this world. There are other beings of whom we must think. We must not be selfish."

Pontmercy's voice suddenly rang out in the silence following the speech. "Have you no women in your life? What of your mother, Combeferre?"

Combeferre's expression, formerly so confident and inspired, melted into one that rivaled any level of confusion that the law student had ever displayed. "My…mother…"

"Citizen!" Enjolras cried. "My mother is the Republic!"

Averting his eyes from Enjolras' fierce gaze, Combeferre climbed down off his perch on the barricade and slowly walked over to the pile of National Guard uniforms. Complete silence blanketed the insurgents as four other men joined him and dressed themselves in the disguises. Combeferre felt numb, but even as his friend and leader's eyes drilled into his back, he knew that he had no other option.

As they began to walk from the barricades, he turned back and met Enjolras' impassive face.

"May God be with you, my friend. Forgive me, but I love my mother more."


End file.
